The Rose — The Countess Cathleen in Paradise
| All the heavy days are over; |
| Leave the body’s coloured pride |
| Underneath the grass and clover, |
| With the
feet laid side by side. |
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| Bathed in flaming founts of duty |
| She’ll not ask a haughty dress; |
| Carry all that
mournful beauty |
| To the scented oaken press. |
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| Did the kiss of Mother Mary |
| Put that music in her face? |
| Yet she goes with footstep wary, |
| Full of earth’s old timid grace. |
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| ’Mong the feet of angels seven |
| What a
dancer glimmering! |
| All the heavens bow down to Heaven, |
| Flame to flame and wing to wing. |